trongly against leaving her
ladyship alone in that lonely house. At length, however, the last of
them was got off, and my lady was left impatiently to await her secret
visitor. It was late afternoon when he arrived, accompanied by Nunweek,
whom he left to hold the horses under the chestnuts in the avenue.
Himself he reached the house across the garden, where the blighting hand
of autumn was already at work.

Within the porch he found her waiting, fretted by her impatience.

"It is very good in you to have come, Sir Richard," was her gracious
greeting.

"I am your ladyship's devoted servant," was his sufficient answer, and
he doffed his plumed bonnet, and bowed low before her. "We shall be
private in your bower above stairs," he added.

"Why, we are private anywhere. I am all alone, as you desired."

"That is very wise--most wise," said he. "Will your ladyship lead the
way?"

So they went up that steep, spiral staircase, which had loomed so
prominently in the plans the ingenious scoundrel had evolved. Across
the gallery on the first floor they entered a little room whose windows
overlooked the garden. This was her bower--an intimate cosy room,
reflecting on every hand the gentle, industrious personality of the
owner. On an oak table near the window were spread some papers and
account-books concerned with the estate--with which she had sought to
beguile the time of waiting. She led the way towards this, and, sinking
into the high-backed chair that stood before it, she looked up at him
expectantly. She was pale, there were dark stains under her eyes, and
wistful lines had crept into the sweet face of that neglected wife.

Contemplating his poor victim now, Sir Richard may have compared her
with the woman by whom my lord desired so impatiently to supplant
her. She was tall and beautifully shaped, despite an almost maidenly
slenderness. Her countenance was gentle and adorable, with its soft grey
eyes and light brown hair, and tender, wistful mouth.

It was not difficult to believe that Lord Robert had as ardently desired
her to wife five years ago as he now desired to be rid of her. Then he
obeyed the insistent spur of passion; now he obeyed the remorseless spur
of ambition. In reality, then as now, his beacon-light was love of self.

Seeing her so frail and trusting, trembling in her anxious impatience
to hear the news of her lord which he had promised her, Sir Richard may
have felt some pang of pity. But, like my